


to wear a collar

by Blueberries (Blueberries_Pen)



Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bad life decisions, Blindfolds, Cockwarming, Collars, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, cuz slavery, ear plugs, leash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueberries_Pen/pseuds/Blueberries
Summary: Dick sells himself into slavery, and makes terrible life choices.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 116





	to wear a collar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayfriend/gifts).



> for mayfriend, who won the twitter raffle, who asked for a slavery au where Dick sells himself to Slade and an exploration of what'll happen as a result. this is a prompt that deserves to be explored in depth properly, but i am lazy and bad at condensing plot points so this is short, I'm sorry 😔  
> not the sexiest but i hope you like it anyway!!

"You can take as long as you like, Dick," Slade had said, sounding so  _ gracious,  _ like Dick wasn't about to do the equivalent of essentially signing his death warrant.

His tea's gone cold, untouched.

Alfred would be disappointed, he thinks. But Alfred isn't here. Instead, Slade is still there, lounging across from him on the sofa, smirking, patiently waiting, his cup long since emptied.

Fuck, how he hates that look. And he's going to have to deal with seeing that for the rest of his life, if he decides to sign. Won't ever be able to talk back to wipe that absolutely infuriating smirk off his face. 

But…

Dick picks up the pen.

Slade's smirk widens - utterly, maddeningly confident.

And well, the tea cup is still in Dick's hand. It goes flying, cold tea splattering comically on Slade as his eyes widen. The ceramic cup hits Slade's chest with a dull thump, falling to his lap. His last act of freedom, spent pettily, stupidly, on pissing Slade off one last time.

“Fuck you,” Dick says, and it tastes like a death warrant. There's a cold fury in Slade's, but Dick cuts that off as he signs the contract.  _ Richard John Grayson. _ His name. His life. Things that are no longer his own, signed over to another. 

The one he just threw tea at.

Slade stares at him, something like astonishment flickering briefly in his gaze before it smooths out. His eyebrow arches. "Are you trying to set the record for quickest punishment earned?"

Dick shrugs. He doesn't regret it, yet, though knowing Slade, he will, soon. He signed. Slade will have to fulfill his end on the contract either way.

There's a dangerous sigh, and then Slade's hand curls around the collar of his shirt, dangerously close to his neck. He has only a moment to tense before he's yanked forward, hands bracing on the table on either side of the contract. His collar digs uncomfortably into his neck, and Slade's breath is hot on his cheek. 

Dick doesn't. Breathe, that is. Not with Slade so close.

The cup lies on the floor between them, shattered.

"You're going to be a handful to train, I can tell," Slade murmurs.

"You saying you can't handle me?" the retort slips out unbidden, too used to banter. He knows it's a mistake the moment it slips out - Slade won't accept any challenge to his authority, not now, when he's still pissed.

_ Smack. _

"First lesson: no backtalk," he instructs coldly. 

Dick wonders how much of that Slade actually means. He knows Slade had enjoyed their little talks too, at least when he was in a good mood. Then again, he supposes having his slave talk back to him would be bad for Slade's image.

"You’re not allowed to sit on the furniture either," Slade says, and catching the twitch of distaste on Dick's face, adds, "You sold yourself to me, boy. I expect you to behave according to your new status now."

Dick forces his face to smooth out, to unclench his fists and relax his tensed up muscles. He thinks he should say something but his throat is still too dry, words caught before they can escape.

_ Clink. _

His eyes zero in on the sound, and - oh. Of course. Slade would be the type to use that. The sight makes bile crawl up his throat, but he should be grateful it's not a brand. He doesn't belong to himself, now. Slaves belong to their master, and a marker is all too common, so that everyone knows just  _ who  _ they belong to.

_ Stay still,  _ he tells himself, as the collar gets closer. It snaps around his neck with a click, a damning weight, and Dick watches Slade's mouth curve into that smug, satisfied smirk once more.  _ I can't hit him,  _ he has to remind himself. Slaves aren't allowed to fight back, and there's no point in giving Slade needless ammunition for  _ punishment.  _

"It suits you. But you look like you're regretting it already," Slade remarks, and Dick forces his jaw to unclench. "I'll be nice," Slade offers. "One last chance - tear up the contract, and I'll let you walk away."

"I'm not backing out, Slade," Dick snaps, anger barely kept in check. They both know Dick  _ can't  _ get out of it, so what's the point?

"Then address me properly, boy. You know how."

Dick breathes in slowly, and in precise, controlled tone, eyes still raised, repeats, "I'm not backing out.  _ Master _ ."

"Perhaps you can be taught after all," Slade murmurs.

And then–

He tilts forward, lips brushing Dick's. They're surprisingly soft, and warm, but Dick's too frozen to really register it. It's not - not  _ unexpected,  _ with all the hints Slade threw his way - but -  _ but - _

...a little warning would have been nice, he supposes.

"Regret it, yet?" Slade asks when he parts, more curious than anything else.

Dick closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he's utterly blank faced. "I don't, master." His voice is steady. 

There's an inscrutable look on Slade's face, one whose meaning Dick can't quite parse. Slade rises abruptly, leaving Dick unbalanced on the table, the contract still between his hands. "Clean that up," Slade says, motioning to the shards of the cup. There's a disinterested edge to his voice, like he couldn't care less about Dick. His gaze lingers, dissecting Dick like an insect as he kneels beside the broken cup. There's a huff of breath, and he turns and strides off, contract forgotten on the table.

It hasn't been registered, yet. Dick could tear it apart, burn it, and leave right now, if he wants to. Fingers touch the leather collar, rubbing over metallic letters.  _ Slade's.  _ He could tear it off, if he wants to.

He doesn't.

It is not the place of a creature as low as a slave to dream of freedom. 

Dick quietly picks up the broken pieces, and tries to clean the mess he'd made.

.

Each slave has a number and barcode registered to them, and Dick had made the reasonable assumption that it had been attached to his collar, but it hadn't. He eyes the instruments in Slade's hands with no small amount of revulsion. He doesn't know why he's surprised, Slade's always been possessive, of course he'll want to leave a marker thant can't be removed.

"You're going to brand me. Like cattle," he says flatly.

"No," Slade corrects. "I'm going to brand you like the slave you are, because you're mine to do anything with."

Dick doesn't move. Somehow, more than a piece of paper that can be burnt, records that can be hacked and destroyed, a collar that can be taken off, this is what hammers it home that this is  _ permanent,  _ that there's no going back after this. That all Slade sees him as is less than a person, subhuman, just a tool. 

Slade quirks an eyebrow at him. "Strip and come here."

"...Why?"

"You’ll keep nothing but that which I give you."

_ Control freak,  _ Dick thinks bitterly, but does not say. Slaves aren't allowed to talk back. He obeys.

In the end, it's not just a barcode he has tattooed onto the back of his right hand. No, Slade to make sure he  _ knows _ . Below the registration number, in bold capital letters, reads  _ 'Property of Slade Wilson'.  _

Every time Dick so much as lifts his hand, he will know. 

His master will never let him forget, he understands. He covers it with his left palm anyway, and pretends, for a second, that both his hands are unmarked.

Slade tugs it away, and Dick watches, slack jawed, as he brings that under the needle too. 

"What?" Slade asks, amused. "You didn't think I was going to just mark one, did you?"

_ Possessive bastard _ , Dick thinks, but keeps his mouth shut.

.

The smell of kerosene hits his nose even before he enters the room, and he tenses, wondering what Slade is planning. A tug on his leash, and he's forced to go stumbling in after him. 

His eyes widen. 

His uniform. His favorite clothes. Photo albums. A poster of Haly's circus. The watch Bruce gave him on his birthday. A worn stuffed animal his parents had given him. A picture Damian had drawn him. The remnants of his life. Things he had left behind, because he hadn't wanted Slade to get his hands on them.

And above it all, the smell of kerosene.

He turns, slowly, to Slade.

There's a match in his hand.

His mouth is dry. "Master–" Slade lights the match, and Dick's heart lurches as he watches the flame flare up. "Don't," he whispers. "Please."

Slade tosses it, and as the match goes flying, so does Dick, hand out reached as he desperately tries to stop it from landing. But the leash yanks him back, pulling him flush against Slade's chest. 

"No," Dick whispers in quiet horror as the pile of things that were once his ignites. "No, no nono _ NO!"  _ But no matter how much he struggles, Slade keeps him pinned flush against his body. "Master,  _ please,"  _ he begs. He has no other pictures of his parents. No other reminder.  _ Nothing.  _ "Slade - master -  _ please!"  _

He begs with increasing desperation as the flames flicker higher, greedily eating away at all that he once was. 

Slade never lets go, no matter how much he screams, no matter how much he fights, no matter how much he curses and spits obscenities, no matter how much he cries, ugly sobs shaking his body.

Those weren't - he didn't -  _ Slade wasn't supposed to touch them.  _

"I've already sold your apartment and the rest of your things," Slade says casually, entirely nonchalant despite the way Dick has gone helplessly limp in his hands, unable to tear his eyes away from the inferno. "Those were the rest."

"Why?" Dick whispers.

Slade's grip on him only tightens. "I told you," he repeats, "You have nothing but that which I give you, boy. Nothing of your former life gets to remain."

Dick doesn't speak. What is there to say? What would be the  _ point,  _ if he raged against his master? 

When there's finally naught but ash, Slade lets go, and Dick collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. 

"Get up," Slade tells him. "You still need to be punished."

Dick turns his head to Slade, uncomprehending. 

"You fought me," Slade reminds. "Talked back, improper address. Did you think you'd get away with it?"

Hot ash burns the tip of his fingers. He can still feel the heat of the flames on his face. Not even Slade's cold words can douse it. This is what he signed up for. This is what he has to deal with. 

He breathes, then forces himself up.

.

Despite the uncomfortable cramped position he was in, Dick sometimes manages to doze off, used to it by now. Even with a plug in his ass and Slade's cock halfway down his throat, breaths carefully pulled in through his nose, blindfolded and deafened by ear plugs, bound to immobility and shoved into the cramped darkness under Slade's desk, after hours and hours of this, he got used it. 

It's inevitable, really, despite how the thought of Slade's cock being such a familiar weight on his tongue would have made him blanch. It's hard inside his mouth, but Slade's only using him as a cockwarmer for now. Sometimes, Slade's hand would drift down, curl in his hair or rub absently at the wetness in the blindfold, and Dick learned to take comfort in that too. Sometimes Slade would turn up the vibrator and have him squirming helplessly to the point of tears, not stopping until Slade decides he's had enough and no sooner.

So Dick likes having Slade's hand on him, because if nothing else, at least then he knows where it is and that it isn't reaching to turn the vibrator on again. 

So with Slade's hand having rested on his head for the past couple of minutes, Dick almost manages to doze off, before Slade decides to abruptly pull out of his mouth and almost sends Dick crashing to the ground before he catches him. This is where Dick would make an indignant noise, if he didn't know it would only earn him a smack.

He's unable to hold back a gasp of pain when Slade tugs out the plug, though Slade thankfully doesn't reprimand him for that. The ear plugs come off too, but not the blindfold, and as sound rushes in, Dick judges that there isn't anyone but him and Slade here. 

_ Good _ . 

He may have sold himself, but that doesn’t mean he likes being  _ seen _ . Conveniently, Slade's a possessive bastard not inclined on sharing, unlike so many others he knows.

Dick breathes shallowly as Slade slides in, setting a quick pace from the beginning. Dick wishes he could bite back the noises, clamp his mouth shut, but the ring gag still on him ensures he can't, ensures Slade catches every hitch of breath and every moan and quiet whimper.

"Slut," Slade murmurs with amusement, when his cock rises, but it's not like Dick can help it when Slade targets his prostate with unfailing accuracy each time. "Whore," he whispers in his ears as he wraps a hand around it, jerking it in time with his thrusts.

Helplessly, Dick writhes on top of Slade's cock, head thrown back and flushed and moaning - Slade always did like seeing him squirm. 

When Slade comes, it brings both relief and dread, because the hand on his cock stops too, leaving him so close to the edge he wants to scream. Asshole, bringing Dick to the edge and then leaving him like this. Fingers undo his restraints, taking off the blindfold and gag, leaving him blinking in the light. 

"Get me some coffee," Slade orders lazily, smirking, before pulling out and leaving him to figure out walking on jelly like and aching legs.

Dick's rock hard, wincing and disoriented, come dripping down his ass, not allowed to clean up or touch himself at all, and all he says is, "Yes, master."

He gets Slade his fucking coffee, and barely resists the urge to spit in it. 

But on his way back, as he sets the coffee on Slade's desk, he can't help but get a glimpse of the papers on it, and freezes. He dallies a moment too long, because Slade yanks him down by the leash, and slides him between his legs again. 

He's not supposed to, but the question burns on his tongue anyway and he stares intensely at Slade. 

"What?" Slade asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

"Who's Richard Wilson, master?" he asks flatly, rigid.

"You, of course. I wasn't going to let you keep any name but mine, so I changed it," Slade answers easily.

Dick can list half a dozen reasons why Slade would do that, but that's his  _ name.  _ His family's name. Slade has no  _ right -  _

...but he does, because Dick sold everything that is himself, including his name, to Slade, and Slade can do whatever he likes. This shouldn't be a surprise, but Dick wishes he had known earlier. Wishes Slade had told him before he'd done it.

Stupid.

He's a slave, and he shouldn't be hoping for anything at all. He should be grateful - he knows having their names changed to registration numbers is a fairly common practice among slaves. At least he still has a name, even if it isn’t the one he’s carried most of his life.

He leans his head against Slade's thigh, tired.

"Do you regret it, boy?" Slade asks, curious. 

Dick thinks of dead bodies, of dead children, of people buried and burned before their time. He wonders at the point of changing a name when Slade never calls him by it, of why Slade keeps  _ asking  _ him that when it won't change anything anyway. He doesn't like thinking of it. 

"No, master," Dick says, final, and very deliberately, envelopes Slade's dick in his mouth again. 

Slade chuckles, and ruffles his hair. "Eager, aren’t you? Good boy."

  
  
  



End file.
